bring back the color in my veins
by puertoricanjane
Summary: Never in any of her post-war imaginings did she imagine herself here, at Lacus Clyne's door, heart in her throat, fingers whitening around her duffel bag.


Never in any of her post-war imaginings did she imagine herself here, at Lacus Clyne's door, heart in her throat, fingers whitening around her duffel bag.

Lacus, to her credit, doesn't ask how or why, just holds the door wider and lets her in.

X

Tea is awkward. Delicious, but awkward.

"You look well," Lacus says, smiling, because she clearly has no concept of such things. Flay doesn't know how else to explain it—explain any of it, really. Why she wasn't turned away on the spot, why she's sitting across the table from Lacus now, making small talk as they drink tea of all things.

Part of her wants to stand up, push back her chair, flatten her hands by Lacus' head and demand that she drop the pretense already. Words rattle around her closed throat—_I was going to kill you once, don't you remember?_—because no one is that good a person, not even saintly Lacus Clyne. But louder than anything, like white noise in her head, is one name repeating on an endless loop. Flay swallows it all. She hopes her answering smile isn't as brittle as it feels.

"Thank you," Flay says, stirring in more honey. She needs something to occupy her hands plus it lets her avoid looking at Lacus' sweetly expectant face. Flay's own stares back at her; hair greasy, eyes swollen. She doesn't call Lacus on the lie. "I'm sorry if I'm intruding. This is an orphanage, right? I hope I'm not taking you away from anything."

Her duffel bag in the other room contradicts this but Lacus does her the courtesy of not calling her on the lie this time.

"It's no problem," Lacus says, actually sounding like she means it. It just keeps amazing Flay, how convincing Lacus can be. "The children are out with Father Malchio right now so it's just you and me. Well, and Haro!" She adds with a little laugh.

Flay starts at that, lifting her head and looking around worriedly. Lacus laughs again, still airy and sweet, and when Flay's gaze swivels back to her she sees her blue eyes are twinkling.

"Don't worry; he's upstairs! I know Mr. Pink can be a little much. I hope you don't mind if he joins us for dinner, though."

Flay's throat is drier than sandpaper. She gulps down some more tea and only asks "Dinner?" once she's set her teacup—pink of course, she doesn't know why she was surprised—back down on its saucer.

Lacus nods, a smile curling about her mouth like a secret no one else will ever be privy too, and that's how Flay ends up staying for dinner.

X

Dinner is a lively affair, between Haro bouncing around and the chatter of the returned children. Lacus fields their questions with ease, her time around them apparent as she distracts them with inquiries about their day. "Flay is an old friend," is all she says about Flay's presence, the casualness of it almost making Flay choke on her food.

Father Malchio doesn't stick around long, excusing himself with a polite smile. Flay is relieved. Something about his gaze unsettles her, how steady it is, like he can see to the very core of you, past all your layers and bullshit defenses to appraise the contents of your heart and soul. She doesn't need him to tell her what she already knows. She remembers pretty clearly as it is.

She helps Lacus with the dishes afterward. Her fingers feel clumsy, like they belong to someone else, and she bows her head as she washes, using her hair as a curtain against - what exactly? Lacus' gaze isn't prying, isn't even focused on her at all. She might as well not be there for all that Lacus is humming under her breath while scrubbing away. Flay's fingers tighten around her plate before releasing.

There's a window over the sink. Ribbons of orange and yellow stream across the sky outside while in the quiet of Lacus' kitchen Flay grabs Lacus's shoulder, turning her roughly.

"What is wrong with you?" Flay hisses, struggling to keep her voice low. Lacus just stares back calmly, like there aren't wet spots on her shirt from Flay's soapy fingers curling around her shoulders, clenching the fabric desperately. "Why are you being so nice? I threatened to kill you! No one is this nice, okay, it's not possible, you can't really—you have to know I'm not—"

She breaks off, the clatter Lacus' plate made when it fell no match for the harsh sound of Flay's breathing. Her anger pulses bright behind her eyes, burns like a hot coal in her chest. She doesn't understand—can't, _won't_.

"You had no weapon," Lacus says gently, after what feels like an eternity. "I chose to go along with you. You were obviously in a great deal of pain. I thought it would be easier." She smiles, impossibly, and Flay's stomach curdles. Lacus' eyes are too bright, too knowing, too much of nothing Flay wants and everything she can't admit she needs. "War, grief, it makes strangers of us all. To ourselves as well as each other."

It's the exact right thing to say, pretty, perfect words from pretty, perfect Lacus Clyne. Flay just feels sick from it. Her anger, grief, Lacus' kindness—she's choking on it all.

Her hands leave Lacus' shoulders to find the faucet handle. The water is still running. She turns it off, but keeps her hand where it is. The metal is cold to her touch. Strange, how it feels like the realest thing in a long time.

"I shouldn't have come here," she whispers harshly, whitening her fingers around it. Wants to scrub a hand over her eyes but settles for blinking furiously. She refuses to let any tears fall. "I don't know what I was thinking." _Liar._

"Only you can know that," Lacus replies, voice just as quiet, her sincerity all the more aching, "but for what it's worth—if it's worth anything—I'm glad you did."

Words can be weapons too, Flay knows that better than anyone, and Lacus' pierce right through her, wedging themselves under her skin like shrapnel. She wants to close her eyes, her ears, but Lacus' hand is closing around her shoulder; a gentle pressure, quietly insisting. Flay flinches, keeping her body angled towards the sink. She's always been a hypocrite.

There is a sigh, soft, sad, but Lacus doesn't force her. Just stays where she is and Flay can feel the warmth of it through her shirt—Lacus' hand on her shoulder.

"I want to know you, Flay Allster, and not just because you're the woman Kira loved."

Flay's body _jerks_. His name hits her like a punch to the gut. She hasn't heard it outside her own head in so long.

"How can you—" She trembles, feels hot and cold all at the same time. "You loved him too, didn't you? So why—" She doesn't even remember turning around.

Lacus isn't smiling anymore, not with her eyes or her mouth, and later Flay will think of this as Lacus finally starting to seem like a real person, not an ideal given human flesh and bone.

"Because we're here," Lacus says, "and he's not."

And Flay—Flay is undone.

* * *

**notes: **This is a story I've been wanting to write for a while—Flay/Lacus, post-series au where Flay lives but Kira dies in the last ep and them coming together in the aftermath—and I'm stepping out of my comfort zone by not posting it as a one shot. The rest of it isn't even written yet! Day of firsts for me.


End file.
